The Worst American ever makes a feeble attempt

Today, Indiana licence in hand, I decided to attempt to vote. I had only registered a day late, and maybe they wouldn't check every one's registration, and maybe I could blend in with everyone.
I decided to play dumb (which I am good at), and I had prepared a repertoire of semi-defensive, partially accusatory, and possibly obnoxious questions (such as: What do you mean, I can't vote? or I was out of the country, how am I supposed to register out of the country? or How can you deny me my right to vote? or other awful but prepared questions).
So I went to the courthouse, and I was chagrined to find a short line--I wanted to hide in a long line and be another lost face that would stand in line to vote. No go. I walked right up to the registration table, and two people started talking to me amiably, unaware of my unproven guilt. "My address is correct," I said.
"Kristine?" the lady asked.
"No, that is my mother."
"Thomas?"
"No, that is my father."
"There isn't anyone else by that name."
"Oh. Well, I registered late."
And she proceed to call another lady over to contact some unknown person that could reveal my hidden secret.
But I was maintaining my role of playing dumb.
I waited.
A business man came up to the table, and nervously he told them that he would return shortly. Another man, soft face and hands and belly and unnaturally dark black hair stood behind me until I waved him ahead of me. A lady with very large and round glasses stood next to me. I believe she was shorter and thinner than I. She energetically nodded when I told her that I was waiting for them to answer a question. "How long is the wait?" she asked.
"I don't know."
Somewhere around this time, I was tempted to slip in line. Sure, the lady who was calling the unknown authorities still had my licence. Sure, they would probably catch me.
There was a chance that maybe I could cast a ballot before they figured out that I wasn't supposed to.
I hesitated too long. Lisa Hurley was there, and she came over to talk to me. Then the lady with the unknown connections to higher knowledge in voter registration came over to inform me that I had registered too late.
Lisa chimed in. "Didn't you tell them that you have been out of the country?"
"That was my trump card." And then I told the lady, "I have been living out of the country. Isn't there anything I can do?"
"No."
"Okay."
All my courage and bratty questions went out the door. I stood outside with Lisa, talking about the stuff that is going on in our lives. I was trying not to feel to guilty about all of it, so Lisa said I should find a party headquarters and volunteer for a bit.
Not a bad idea, but I have no idea where to look for a Bob Barr or Chuck Baldwin headquarters.